BRANCHES

It's spring and the man is walking
with the long brown branches
tucked under his arm,
their ends wrapped in florist's paper.
At random intervals along the branches
are just-born blossoms,
soft spots of bright pink,
and I imagine the lovely effect
they will have in his living room.
But something feels wrong and
I rebel at the sight.
Those blossoms
haven't even had a chance.
Still in formation,
not quite in flower,
they've been hacked off
in their infancy.
I look again at the branches,
their back ends poking out of the paper
revealing the slashes
that tore them from their tree.
Let them be - don't you see?
It's spring.
This is a gentle thing.


© Ellen Azorin